Maps for lost lovers

A poetic ode to love, to lovers and to the lost lovers... 

Very rarely a book is written to be a beautiful poem. If one has ever loved and lost, this book will make you feel it again, both the joy and sadness of it. The book leaves a deep impression on you, and you start to believe the permanence of love, the sad twinge in your heart which stays no matter what, the love so pure which can never be understood in the dark reality of this world. Not all love stories have happy endings, oh the kind of love where it is better to love and loose than never to love at all. I don’t have much words to say about the book, but quoting the brilliant words from the author can do some justice to this marvelous piece of poetry. 

Everything’s divided into His and Hers as if anyone needed a reminder of what a great big title that country really is. 

Lord Krishna and his thousand girlfriends, indeed! And they jeer at our prophet, peace be upon him, for having just nine wives! 

In England the heart said boom boom instead of dhak dhak; a gun said bang! Bang! Instead of thah! Things fell with a thud and not a dharam: small bells said jingle instead of chan chan; the trains said choo choo instead of chuk chuk 

Shocking or stressful events and incidents are said to concentrate consciousness to a single point and that slows down the time. Dying, over within seconds, supposedly takes forever. 

It is said that it is a mark of excellence in men of the navel, voice and breath are deep, and the thighs, bro and face are broad: if feet and hands, the corners of the eyes, palate, tongue, lover lip and nails have a rich red hue; according to the ancients it augers well if fingers and finger joints, hand, skin and teeth are fine; in the rulers of the earth the jawline, eyes, arms, and the space between the breasts are long; happiness is said to be ensured of chest and shoulders, finger and toe nails, nose chin and throat are raised and prominent; and of back and shanks and the male member are shapely and short. 

They have become a bloody Rorschach blot: different people see different things in what has happened.

She seems to be one of those people to meet whom is to meet oneself. 

They say it’s hard to kill a fellow human being. Don’t aim at the victim: aim at something on the victim- the knot of a tie, a flower printed on the dress. 

She rubs the glass of the window, and it seem to him that she is trying to erase the outside world. 

He has read somewhere that, although the constant stimuli is daytime experience keeps us from noticing it, we are dreaming at low levels all the time. 

While her own daughter sang about the Pussycat that went to London to see the queen, the girls at Muslim school sang, Fatima Fatima, where have you been? I’ve been to the mosque with Nur- ud- Deen. 

She finds herself flowing again from down there, the place that in her case, had proved to be the portals both of life and of death: Chanda came out of there, as did her killers. 

Most people live in the past because it’s easy to remember than to think. 

Which to hold dearer: my love for you, or the sorrows of others in the world? They say the intoxication is greater when two kinds of wine are mixed.